It's Wrong, But Surely Worst To Leave
by Countryole
Summary: "Tash might have been an instigating asshole, but she's not a liar, and sure enough Kurt spots Jane in the corner, nursing a drink and entertaining someone he doesn't recognize. He doesn't need to know who it is though to decide, instantly, that he doesn't like them." Shameless Jeller pwp, and sassy Tash, because those are the things I live for.
1. Chapter 1

**_It's Wrong, But Surely Worst To Leave._**

"Are you having a lovers quarrel?"

Kurt Weller cringes. He should be used to this by now, the random, uncomfortable questions that Tasha Zapata has a knack for springing on him at inopportune moments. He knows that she gets a kick out of it, and he wants to tell her to knock it off—that she's no Rich Dotcom, but thinking about that asshole just makes him even more mad. He doesn't need anymore help in the self-depreciating department, he does just find on his own, thank you very much.

"What do you want, Tasha?" Kurt glances down and to the side at his shorter, prettier coworker. He pulls the tie at his neck out of nervous habit, but he still feels uncomfortable in the three piece tux no matter how many times he tries to adjust it. This kind of stuff is what Reade, the resident agency debonair, lived for, but not him. Unfortunately, Mayfair had made the annual interagency gala mandatory for their entire department this year, so as much as Kurt would like to shirk his duties and go hide in his apartment, he'd probably get demoted over it.

"I want to know why you're avoiding your date." Tash sidles up next to him, her third glass of government budget Shiraz in hand. The dark red of the wine matches the dark red of her dress. She watches Kurt start to fiddle with his tie again, and she swats his hand away, straightening it for him with the kind of murderous scowl he's only ever seen from his sister, or from his mother during his childhood when he served as an alter boy. He'd learned his lesson early that women never liked it when you sullied their good work, especially if it had anything to do with dressing you. Tash has made herself very clear: _Don't touch it again._

"Who said I was avoiding her?" Kurt frowns, attempting to deflect, but it only makes Tash latch on more, like a bulldog, or a piranha. A very insistent piranha.

"Past experience has taught me if you take care of business at home, business everywhere else will take care of itself," Tash waggles her eyebrows, bold because of the alcohol, not even bothering to hide the suggestion behind what she said. "I know what dissatisfied women look like, Kurt. Jane fits the bill, what gives?"

" _Christ_ , Zapata, really? We never should have told you we were dating."

"I would have found out. Trust me, this way is less painful."

"Suspending you so I don't have to see your face for a week would be less painful."

Kurt grunts when she nails him in the shoulder wit her fist, several glasses of wine, four inch stilettos and a split in her dress past her mid-thigh hardly throwing off her aim. He's not sure whether he should be concerned, or impressed, but he's certainly aggravated—then again Tash is an aggravating person. Kurt scowls down at her as a two couples pass by on their way to the dance floor, and she waves amicably at them as if nothing has happened, smiling like the perfect angel she isn't.

"So are you going to sit here all night and sulk against the wall, like the guy at prom who didn't get picked to dance, or are ya gonna do something about it?" Tash raises an eyebrow at him, finishing off the last of her drink just as a passing waiter with a tray sweeps by, and she trades her empty glass out for a full one. "You're both stubborn to a fault, if you'd get over that, you could resolve this ridiculous sexual tension that's polluting the workplace, and we could all get back to our regularly scheduled programs."

Kurt's not drinking anything, but if he had been, he would've choked on it. He chokes on thin air instead.

"I'm going to suspend you Tash, if you don't stop, I'm gonna do it."

"You said that last week, and obviously you have a problem following through— _if you know what I mean_ —so sorry buddy, doubt it'll happen."

" _I swear to god_ , Natasha—"

Tash doesn't even blink at the use of her full name, something that at the very least usually warrants an eye twitch, or a frown, but she just smiles that demure smile of hers and pats Kurt's back in mock reassurance.

"Oh, well, I see _my_ date, so I'll have to leave you," Tash looks into the crowd, at someone he can't pin point. "I think I saw Jane by the punch bowl chatting up some guy from Homeland Security, you might want to check on that, Agent Weller. Although, maybe it'd do you some good to have a little healthy competition." Tash winks at him, squeezing his arm with a wicked grin before slipping into the crowd of ballroom dancers and disappearing from sight.

Kurt sighs, and after some internal debate on if he's really going to let one of his subordinate agents win a game of psychological warfare against him, and trying to remember the names of the Homeland Security agents on the guest list, he makes an executive decision and heads in a beeline for the punch bowl.

Tash might have been an instigating asshole, but she's not a liar, and sure enough Kurt spots Jane in the corner, nursing a drink and entertaining someone he doesn't recognize. He doesn't need to know who it is though to decide, instantly, that he doesn't like them. No, it's fairly easy for him to channel his unjustified dislike (or hatred) based solely on the fact that this man, this _stranger_ , is all but breathing down Jane's neck.

When she spots Kurt, he gets a sick sense of satisfaction out of the look of relief that floods her face, the _please help me_ eyes, and he saunters forward purposefully and comes to stand beside her, making sure to force the other man to step back by crossing his path. He interrupts the conversation as he slips his arm around Jane's shoulders and levels the younger, suddenly startled Homeland Security agent with steely blue eyes.

"This is my boyfriend," Jane picks up the conversation as if nothing has happened, as if Kurt hasn't just told this other man to fuck off by glaring daggers at him, "Kurt, this is Simon Watts, Simon, this is Kurt Weller. He heads the FBI Critical Response unit here in New York."

"Oh, the same one you work for?" Simon smiles, but it's flat, having clearly lost his confidence, "nice to meet you, Agent Weller." Simon tries his best at being cordial, but Kurt's not buying it, and when the young man offers his hand in greeting Kurt makes sure to grip a little harder than he normally would have.

"Nice to meet you, too." Kurt's smile isn't flat, but it isn't friendly either. Hostile would probably be the most appropriate description. Or maybe menacing. He turns to Jane though, and his expression instantly softens when he looks at her, and he nods his head to the hall that leads out of the ballroom and into the lobby of the convention center. "You mind if we go for a walk?"

"Sure," Jane links her arm through his, glancing back at Simon with faux apology, pausing to wave farewell. Kurt doesn't pause though, all but dragging her away. She might remember her manners, but he does not, and right now he doesn't particularly care. Homeland Security never liked the FBI anyway.

When they're outside the ballroom, back in the quiet, near deserted lobby, Kurt can't help but breathe out a sigh of relief. He's not one for big crowds or loud music, all of which he'd been subjected to the past hour. Out here where they're the only two people besides the occasional passing hotel stuff, he can breathe, and think straight. More importantly he'll be able to spot Zapata before she can ambush him again. The only thing that could possibly make this better is if he hadn't been in a yelling match with the woman on his arm twelve hours prior to now.

Kurt glances down at Jane as they walk away from the din of the gala, pausing at the far wall of the lobby where the halls start leading back into the main part of the hotel, away from the convention center. He can't help but stare sometimes, especially now, when she's not looking at him. As aggravated as he is with Tash, he makes note to thank both her and Patterson for taking Jane shopping. The green dress with the deep v cut in the front and the low dip in the back is lovely, but _Jane_ makes it stunning.

She's the breathtaking, heart skipping kind of beautiful, and it pains him to look at her just as much as it pains him to look away.

Jane spins in his arms, and Kurt's taken aback when she places the flat of her palms against his chest, unprepared for the close contact when surely their earlier argument was still fresh in her mind. It's still fresh in his, and he recalls, clearly, how she'd hurled her holster at his head in the locker room that morning. Luckily, she missed, though he suspects she did so on purpose.

"I'm sorry." Jane says suddenly, quickly, and he's even less prepared to hear those words come out of her mouth. An apology, after everything he said this morning, is the last thing he expects. If anything he's the one who should be apologizing, for losing his shit, for letting his temper get the best of him.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for, Jane," Kurt murmurs, feeling guilty, feeling terrible, and he wishes he could take it all back. Here they are, two months into trying to figure out how to navigate this, _them_ , and he's already fucking it up. History repeats itself, and he knows he has a knack for driving women away because of his inability to admit any fault, but also because he internalizes the stuff that hurts the most until it explodes. He doesn't want that to keep happening, especially not now.

"I was stupid, this morning, breaking off from the team." Jane shakes her head, frowning, brow furrowed. "I _should_ be sorry."

"When I said you were being reckless today, in the field, when I said you were being careless, it wasn't because I was mad at you Jane…" Kurt breathes out, his hands at her waist, a frown on his face as he tries to find the right words to explain himself, to make her understand. "I'm sorry too, I am. I shouldn't have lost it like that, but I did because it scares me when you put yourself in danger. If that raid had gone sideways, if you'd gotten cornered, or shot… I just don't want you to get hurt."

 _I just don't want to lose you._

He can't say that though.

Jane's green eyes search his face. He waits, and prays, that she'll say something, that she'll acknowledge his confession with some sort of affirmation. And she does. Before he can say anything else she's drawing him closer, and her lips taste like forgiveness on his, her sigh breathing redemption back into him as her hands link together behind his neck.

"I'll try to do better," Jane whispers, and he wishes she didn't look so sad, so distraught, "promise."

"I will too," Kurt rests his forehead against hers briefly, memorizing the solid feel of her beneath his hands, the curve of her small waist, the flat of her shoulder blades. He can't imagine her not being here, in his arms, not being able to hear the sound of her breathing in his ear, or feel the steady beat of the pulse beneath the bird on her neck. And if Tash hadn't taken the sniper out in the shipyard that morning, while Jane was apprehending the gunman on the ground…

"Kurt?"

"Hm."

"Come with me," Jane says, though with no indication as to where they're going. She steps away from him, graceful in the black Jimmy Choo pumps that Tash had hand picked for her. He can't help but trace the elegant curve of her back as she walks forward, following the line of her spine down to her ass, and Kurt would've been frozen in place, gawking like a teenage boy, if it weren't for the fact that her hand is wrapped around his.

"Where are we going?"

"The bathroom."

Her reply is flippant, as if he should known exactly where they're going, but he can't help but notice the edge in her voice, the look in her eyes whens he glances back over her shoulder at him and grins. She must have scoped out the building before hand, being the overachiever that she is, because she leads them further down the hall away from the convention center to a more secluded alcove, and into a single private family bathroom, upon which she promptly locks the door behind them.

The voice in his head, the one that belongs to Supervisory Special Agent Kurt Weller, is currently giving him a list of reasons as to why this is a terrible idea, and yet he does nothing to stop it.

He doesn't have a lot of time to think about it, really, because she's kissing him again, and it's far less chaste than the one in the lobby had been. Kurt reacts out of instinct, one hand tangling in her hair, tilting her head back to expose her neck to him, the other at the small of her back, pulling her closer. She's all too willing to do as he pleases, and the soft moan as he trails his lips from her mouth to the tender spot of her neck is enough to make him moan in turn. _Damn her_ , he thinks, _had she planned this the entire time?_

Meanwhile, the less virtuous and noble part of him that's willing to do almost anything to see her naked is censoring all the reasonable parts of his brain that would otherwise have him running in the opposite direction. He's never been very good at telling her no, but he's most definitely not very good at telling her no when she's demanding he unzip her dress, all while her deft fingers are working at removing his belt.

"We shouldn't be doing this," Kurt murmurs against her mouth, as if hastily pointing out the obvious while she steps out of her dress, and then lets him back her up to the sink, somehow justifies what they're doing.

"Don't care," Jane gasps when he grabs her by the waist, effortlessly lifting her up onto the marble countertop.

He supposes that's justification enough.

Her ballgown—now lying on the floor behind them with his jacket and waistcoat and pants—isn't the kind that's worn with bras, and Kurt follows the swell of each breast, then down the plain of her stomach to the simple, black lace underwear she still has on. Kurt raises an eyebrow appreciatively, and she shrugs, smug with herself as he gets to his knees, hooking his index fingers in the on either side of her hips to pull them down, past the scrolls and figures and topography marks, around her ankles and over her pumps.

"They're your favorite," she points out.

"They're my favorite when you're not wearing them," he corrects.

Kurt thinks they should probably be a little worried, or at the very least concerned that someone will start looking for them if they're gone much longer, and yet the less inhibited part of him finds it more pressing to pay attention to things like her spread legs, and the fact that she's still wearing her heels when he hooks her knees over his shoulders.

She's impatient, which given their shrinking window of opportunity actually works in their favor, but Kurt doesn't rush.

He trails his lips in languid succession up each of her inner thighs, past each symbol and each image inked into her skin, and she shudders at the contact, leans hear head back in frustration as he grips her hips and shifts her closer to the edge of her marble throne. One of her hands lies flat against the cool stone surface, the other in his hair, trying to not-so-subtly encourage him in the right direction. When his tongue finally traces a clear line through the center of her, lingering at the sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex, her sigh is one of relief. However, his fingers soon have her arched into his hand, into his mouth, and the sighs become wanton gasps that reduce her to begging while his free hand grips her hip firmly, holding her in place despite her protests.

"Kurt, _please._ "

She's close, he can feel her clench around his fingers as he hooks them inside her, in and out, his mouth unrelenting as he works. It isn't until she's reduced to uncontrollable trembling around him, her legs pulling him closer as they clutch at his back and her hands gripping the countertop, that he knows she's about to give it up—and she does.

It's beautiful really, watching her orgasm, she is beautiful, and he lives for that complete look of bliss on her face. It's the only time she's lost in herself entirely, the only time she allows herself to be completely selfish, and he never wants to forget how she looks when she's like that—he never wants to forget that he's the only one who can give that to her.

She's breathless as he gently pulls her legs back over his shoulders, and they dangle with lifeless, satisfied exhaustion as he stands up. Her eyes close, her head lolling in contentment on her slender neck. Kurt settles himself between her legs again, and she smiles even though her eyes remain closed, because she can feel him pressed against her, and she can taste herself when he kisses her, hungry and insatiable. Jane sighs into his mouth, glad to have his shoulders to dig her nails into instead of the marble underneath her.

"Can you stand up?" He whispers in her ear, biting at the sensitive flesh of her lobe, his hands cupping her legs beneath the knee, holding her close.

"You're very, _very_ good," Jane slides out of his grasp, off the countertop with ease, "but not quite _that_ good."

She winks at him, somewhat to Kurt's chagrin, though he's hardly going to complain. She's almost as tall as him in her heels, and so they stand nearly eye to eye, chest to chest, and she makes quick work of his tie, and then his shirt, never once looking away from him except to make sure they joined the rest of the clothes in the pile near the door. She kisses him, her tongue tracing the line of his lips, one hand splayed against his chest, the other reaching for his erection.

"Not like this," Kurt shakes his head, and he grabs her wrists, pulling them back up, crossing them over her chest as he leans forward to whisper in her ear. "I want you to watch—turn around."

She does as he requests, and he retrieves his wallet from his pants pocket, retrieves the condom she blessedly started making him keep there, and returns to stand behind her. She's bent forward, her hands splayed against the marble, and he looks at their reflection in the square victorian mirror that covers the full upper half of the wall. Her face is flushed, the distinctive rise and fall of her ribcage still visible, and her eyes are heavy, dark with anticipation as she watches him. Kurt steadies himself, his hands at her hips, at the owl and the rings engraved there, and he presses his lips in reverent worship to the tattoo at the center of her shoulder blades—his name—before guiding himself into her.

Jane braces against the countertop as Kurt begins to move, slowly at first, cautiously, because he's always, always careful with her. It isn't until she backs further into him, encouraging him to go faster without words that he begins to bare down on her, increasing the pace, the depth of each stroke of his hips reaching deeper until Jane can't help the soft, breathy cry that drifts from the back of her throat. Kurt leans over her, presses his mouth to the damp hair at the base of her neck, his hand reaching around her waist to cup her breasts, his tongue tracing the scar above the oil rigs fashioned just above his name.

Her whimper is a plea, and he can feel Jane nearing the end again, he can feel his own pleasure coil and knot in his stomach, and all the while she begs for that final release in the way she says his name—unrelenting, frantic, over and over and over.

When she she falls apart the second time, he does too, and he watches her reflection in the mirror, the soft _oh_ her lips make when he comes inside her. Kurt presses his face into her neck, presses his lips to the curve at the juncture of her shoulder, gasping into her skin. Both their legs threaten to give out, both their visions swim, but Kurt pulls Jane to him as her body tries to collapse across the marble surface completely. He stands her upright, his arms firm and secure around her waist, holding her flush to his chest as she leans back and rests her full weight on him, and feverishly pressing his lips to the side of her head.

She shakes in his arms, he realizes not from exhaustion, but because she's _laughing_. She manages to spin languidly in his embrace, grinning madly, her eyes deliriously happy, and she kisses him squarely on the mouth, her hand grabbing his chin to hold him steady.

"That was…" Jane shakes her head, curls herself around him with her arms and laughs again, burying her face in his neck.

"The best make up sex ever?" Kurt offers, his smile wide, devious.

"Well, yes, though I can't remember if I have any past experience to compare it to…"

"Hey!"

Jane can't help but laugh again at the look on Kurt's face, and despite the fact that he's trying to pretend to be hurt, he can't help but smile at the sound of it, clear and full in the smallness of the room. She pushes him away with her hands, her heels clicking across the stone floor as she stoops to pick up her underwear and then her dress. She slips back into both of them, and Kurt is briefly wondered by the fact that she's able to walk at all, let alone in four inch heels. He's not sure moving is such a great idea right now, and he questions if it's whether he needs to build up his stamina, or if his age is finally catching up with him. Either thought makes him wince.

Jane spins, her dress barely hanging of her shoulders, and she tosses him his pants and his shirt with a smirk, before collecting his waistcoat and his jacket and folding them over her arm. He starts to put his wardrobe back together piece by piece, and with far less grace than Jane had executed. When she turns her back to him he zips her dress back up, slowly, past the double headed eagle, to where it stops just below the hexagon centered along her spine. He savors the moment, lets his fingers brush her skin, and notes the way she leans into his touch even now.

"They're going to wonder where we've been," Jane says as she washes her hands, and then starts to fix her disheveled waves in the mirror. Kurt can't help but picture her how he'd had her just minutes ago, spread out over the marble, and if he could have he would've taken her again right there.

"Let them wonder," Kurt shrugs, and Jane turns to him, eyeing his clothes, straightening his tie, before finally nodding in satisfaction.

"Do I look presentable?" Jane asks, eyeing her reflection in the mirror.

"You look utterly _ravishing_." Kurt stands behind her, one last time, his hands at her waist as he leans over her shoulder to press a kiss to the edge of her jaw.

"Mmm," Jane hums, leaning into him, "I can't imagine why."

They make it out of the bathroom fully clothed, back down he hallway and into the ballroom, without any incident or curious faces to see them. It's almost as if they were never gone, even though Kurt realizes it's been nearly half an hour. But Tash isn't anywhere to be seen, nor Reade or Mayfair or Patterson, and so with Jane on his arm they find a seat at the open bar. They shift close enough that their legs brush, and their arms, and Kurt orders himself a martini, and her a bourbon.

"I'll have to let you throw things at my head more often," Kurt says over the top of his drink, eyeing her wryly.

"I wouldn't suggest making it a habit," Jane cautions, smoothing her dress over her legs with a smirk.

Kurt chuckles, shrugging, but he makes no promises. He glances out at the still rather crowded dance floor, the cliques of politicians and government officials scattered around the room, wondering if Reade's managing to stay out of trouble, and if Patterson's had too much to drink yet.

That's when he spots her.

It's Tash, but it's not _just_ Tash. It's also the woman standing next to her in a long black dress that catches his eye. A woman he recognizes. And by standing next to her, he means they're wrapped around each others waist, whispering in each other's ears, clearly having drank too much wine by the way they're holding each other up.

Jane follows his gaze, but when he turns to her, Kurt's surprised to see that she's not surprised at all. When she realizes that he _is_ surprised, her eyes get a little wide, and her hand flies up to her mouth, trying to hide her grin behind it, but failing.

"You didn't know!" Jane exclaims, laughing. "You didn't know she was Tasha's date, did you?"

And by Tasha's date, Jane is referring to none other than Allison Knight.

* * *

 _ **AN:** Soooooo this was another tumblr prompt. I love Tash, and I love her sass, and I love Jane and Kurt being at her mercy for it, and I love Jane and Kurt fighting, and then making up. I mean who doesn't like seeing them attend fancy events in fancy clothes (and then take them off)? ANYWAYS, thanks for reading lovelies. Lemme know what you think. x)_


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN:** In my head there's this alternate universe where Tasha and Allie went to school and the police academy together, and worked at the same NYPD precinct, before Tash made the move to the FBI (which is when Allie would've met Kurt). In all this time, and basically the rest of her life, Tash has kept her sexuality a secret, it's been a very real, very personal struggle for her because of her childhood and her upbringing. __However, despite Tash's vehement self-hate, it never stopped her from falling in love with her best friend._ _In my head canon she sort of goes a little crazy and gets experimental in college, she falls off the wagon with drinking, and Allie sort of befriends her and puts her back on track. The rest is history._

 _I don't think these two would actually work out in real life, BUT MAN DO I WANT THEM TO. My friend pointed out that this AU ship totally makes us understand weird AU ships, and it does, it really does lol. Anyway, here's a hypothetical what-if scenario that spins off from the first chapter of this. Be warned, definitely not safe for work. x)_

* * *

If there's one thing she loves most in the world—more than tequila, or watching the Jets win, or fifty-cent wings when Reade's buying—it's calling a bet and being right.

Watching Jane and Kurt return to the ballroom from their intermission is so satisfying that Tash has to stop herself from looking for Reade in the crowd of faces just to yell at him, _I told you so!_ She watches the couple cross the dance floor and find a seat at the bar, and if it weren't for the fact that walking across the room in heels sounded incredibly difficult—in addition to the half dozen glasses of wine—Tash would go interrogate both of them just for the sheer entertainment of watching Jane's face go red.

She has other things to worry about though, better things, namely the woman currently hanging on her arm, who's laughter lights up the entire room. Tash listens in contentment to Allie's animated conversation with one of her father's many government connections, who just so happens to be at the gala. Being the daughter of New York City's police commissioner warrants Allison Knight her fair share of attention at these events, as if the fact that they were dating wasn't enough attention by itself. Tash is too far into the night though, too many drinks in to be worried about it like she normally would, so she doesn't.

It's unreal, in some ways, how easy it's been, how right it feels for Allie to be beside her. She could spend a lifetime listening to Allie's voice and never get tired of it, and another lifetime watching that big, bright, infectious smile. Tash closes her eyes, leaning her weight against Allie's, lest her less than sober balance betray her, a glass of wine still in one hand. She's had almost too much, _almost_ , but so has Allie. Funny how that always seems to happen, not that she minds.

"Hey, Zapata, wake up!"

Adamant fingers curl through her own and Tash blinks, realizing their company has left them, and she turns her head at the sound of her name—the sound of _Allie_ saying her name, and grins.

"You with me?" Allie asks, head tilted, hazel eyes warm. The loose pieces of gold-brown hair at the front of her face have fallen, the rest of her long hair twisted and pinned at the top of her head, and Tash resists the urge to reach up and push them away.

"Always." Tash replies instantly, the same answer she's always given Allie over the years, regardless of whether or not it wound up breaking her to say it. _Always with you._ Oh, how things have changed. Tash grips Allie's hand a little tighter.

They've dated secretly, at Tash's request, for months. It was only a couple weeks ago that Tash filed a close and continuing form with Mayfair, working her way up to telling the rest of the team, ironically after she and Allie had their first big fight in literal years. Tash hums happily when Allie loops her arm around her waist, and leans sideways to press a kiss to the side of her head, inadvertently causing Tash to tip her wine glass sideways too. When it almost spills they both fall into a hysterical fit of laughter, and for a split second that's all Tash can hear, and Allie is all she sees, the rest of the world disappearing.

That is until she looks up and spots Jane, and Kurt, watching both of them from across the room.

Tash remembers how the attention would have sent her into a fit of panic before, years of being conditioned against her nature making it instinctual, but now is different. Aside from her bothers, Allie's parents, and Mayfair, Jane is the only other person who knows about them, the result of walking in on them at her apartment one unplanned evening when they'd first started dating. In all that time Jane never said a word though, choosing to be happy for Tash from a distance, something still still adores her for. Tash meets Jane's knowing eyes from across the room with a wide grin, and the tattooed woman nods, a confused and almost gaping Kurt Weller trying to work through the scene in front of him with little success as he sits beside her.

"We have an audience," Allie notes, waggling her eyebrows suggestively, enjoying the attention. She twists in Tash's embrace, the black fabric of her hourglass shaped evening gown fluttering with the movement, and Tash appreciates the feel of the dresses lace bodice against her arm. Never once in all of the change, as terrifying as it's been for Tash, has Allie been uncomfortable or out of sorts with herself. She's never been the kind of shy from change, and if anything Allie's unwavering, unapologetic personality has been nothing but good for the reclusive, emotionally mute FBI agent and her sometimes self-deprecative tendencies. The last few months with Allie have been, by far, some of her happiest. They've been easy, _normal_.

Tash is a believer; the pieces of yourself you think are the worst, the parts of yourself you never trusted, are sometimes the only thing you ever really needed in the first place. Allie is proof of that.

"Let them wonder," Tash shrugs, just as saucy and sassy as her better half, and Allie leans her head against Tash's shoulder with another small laugh, their grip on one another the only thing keeping them from falling at this point.

"Better yet," Allie adds, attempting to be discreet, "we could give them something _real_ to wonder about."

"Oh?" Tash feigns ignorance, but she doesn't miss the insinuation in Allie's voice, or her eyes.

Allie doesn't reply. She takes Tash's drink, bringing it to her lips and finishing it off in one fell swoop, before setting it down on the table behind them.

Tash vaguely recalls the half hearted promise they'd made to one another at the beginning of the night, the solemn oaths to avoid dark corners and hidden spaces, to remain on their _very best_ behavior. It's why they'd agreed to get a hotel room for the event, for christ's sake.

However, the alcohol and the temptation combined have all but pushed those vows of decency to the back of Tash's head. So when Allie pulls at her wrist, pulls her away from the crowds and the watching eyes and suddenly too loud music, she doesn't stop her. Tash doesn't stop her when they leave the ballroom and wind up in the elevator lobby, or when they step onto the elevator. Allie takes it upon herself to press the emergency stop button, pulling her hair down as she does it, and she has that _irresistible goddamn smile_ on her face when she turns around...

Tash's hands are in Allie's hair, her body flush against hers, their mouths meeting in a hungry, unabashed kiss before the elevator even comes to a complete stop.

It's always fascinated Tash, how intuitive Allie's always been, how good she is at reading people, and that remains the same now, even if their roles together are far removed from the ones in their past. Allie knows just the right way to move, just the right way to manipulate her touch and elicit the reaction she wants. Tash's poker face is legendary by every definition of the word, but it's never held up around Allie. Now that it's no longer a requirement, a necessity, it's all she can do to keep her composure when she kisses her like this-as if it were the first and last time all at once.

Tash wonders, in all the years she's dreamed of these moments, how she never lost her mind because of it.

If she hasn't, she certainly will now.

Allie's hands are at the back of her thighs, cupping her ass through her red dress, pulling her closer as she deftly rolls her hips, framing them against Tash's, taunting her. Her mouth works at the spot on her neck, just below Tash's jaw, her teeth grazing the skin before soothing it with her tongue, and she repeats the process with maddening insistency. Tash bites her cheek to hold back the string of profanities on the edge of her lips, and partly to make sure _this_ —the woman warm and willing beneath her hands—is in fact real.

It's still hard to believe, at times.

"Do you want me to…" Allie's whisper is heady rush in her ear, and her hands wander to the small of Tash's back, tracing the line of the zipper until her nails skim across the warm, bare skin along her spine, and the further up between her shoulder blades.

"Later." Tash shakes her head, only partially lamenting the decision. After being forced to watch Allie's retreating figure for the majority of the evening, forcing herself to keep her hands at minimal roaming, there's only one thing she wants to do. "Only thing I want right now is _you_."

Allie doesn't argue, but she laughs, and much to Tash's surprise Allie's hands move to her face, framing them before she leans forward, kissing her again without warning. It startles Tash at first, not because she isn't expecting it, but because after years of convincing herself these kisses would only exist in her imagination, it still stuns her when Allie kisses her _first—_ kisses her senseless, rendering her heart helpless and racing in her chest.

The kiss is slow at first, but it quickly becomes frantic, frenzied, a war of hungry mouths and tongues and teeth. Tash backs Allie up against the elevator wall, angling her mouth against her own, slightly taller than her counterpart thanks to the stilettos she's wearing. It isn't until her lungs are completely deprived of oxygen that she forces herself to draw back. It's a pause that's just long enough for them to catch their breath, her fingers tangled in Allie's soft curls, their foreheads resting against one another. She kisses Allie once more, squarely, before stepping away.

Eyes dark, smoldering, Tash reaches for Allie's hand and pulls her from the wall. She spins her around, like she's done many times before, moving to stand directly behind her, pulling her hair away from her neck to place a kiss behind her ear. Allie follows the cues seamlessly, instinctively, her hands splayed against the wall while Tash's fingers find the zipper on her dress— _down, down, down_. Tash slips the black lace away from Allie's shoulders, smiles against the bare skin when she presses her lips there. Pure, unadulterated glee coils in her stomach. She still remembers, clearly, their first time in bed together, and how aware Allie had been even then, despite her uncertainties, and how she'd been just as willing then as she is now.

 _It's just a learning curve,_ Allie had said jokingly, but as Allison Knight does with most of her endeavors, she learns quickly. After many nights and lazy weekend mornings of practice, she's all but perfected the art.

The rest of the dress falls in a pool at Allie's feet, and Tash carefully spins her around again, painfully aware that the amount they've had to drink has made them both far less graceful than they'd normally be in too tight dresses and too tall heels.

She's also painfully aware of just how beautiful Allison is, and she can't help but stare, her eyes drinking in every naked curve and line, the swell of her petite breasts and the dip of her ribcage and hips. Slowly, reverently, Tash slips her knee between Allie's thighs, deliberately maneuvering her foot against each ankle, forcing her to spread her legs. She then she gets to her knees, trailing her lips along the flat of Allie's stomach as she goes. Allie hums eagerly in her throat, head bowed, and Tash looks up appreciatively, Allie's hand trailing through her hair.

"Allison Knight goes commando," Tash teases, her hands at Allie's hips, grinning up at her, "were you thinking you'd get lucky tonight, U.S. Marshal?"

"I might have had an idea," Allie shrugs, eyes devious, "although past experience has made you slightly predictable."

Tash's expressions darkens in mock injury, but her eyes are bright and laughing as she shakes her head, settling herself in front of Allie, her hands lingering on the other woman's upper thighs with volitional hesitation, while her mouth works lower, and lower...

"Tasha, I didn't drag you in here to be a tease."

"You've always been so impatient," Tash murmurs against her, right before her tongue tastes her for the first time, right as she delves one finger, and then two, between Allie's parted legs.

She can't help the swell of satisfaction at the incoherent hiss that slips past Allie's lips.

Tash works slowly, deliberately, her fingers finding the same place over and over again, until Allie is writhing into her touch, crying out against the torturously soft strokes of her tongue that work in cadence with her hand. After a few moments she pulls her mouth away intentionally, eliciting a breathless groan of frustration from Allie, and she arcs further into Tash's hand in response, silently pleading for more.

" _Tease_." Allie repeats above her, her head leaned back against the wall, her hands curling around the handrails.

Tash's lip trail their way back up the length of Allie's body, the pressure of her fingers at Allie's center increasing, her thumb compensating for the sudden absence of her mouth. She leaves a burning succession of kisses along the soft expanse of the other woman's stomach, and higher, the palm of her free hand pressed flat just below Allie's naval, forcing her to be still. Never once does she falter, her occupied hand steady and unrelenting as she begins to rise to her feet. Her lips press a firm kiss to Allie's sternum, and then they find her breasts, her teeth grazing each nipple, her tongue worrying them with the same excruciating, patient accuracy she continues to wield with her fingers below.

It only takes minutes. Allie's all but squirming beneath her, her eyes closed, her face flushed, and Tash knows how close she is—how easy it would be to push her over the edge. She wants it to last though, to draw it out for as long as possible, committing each keening sound and gasp she manages to lure out of Allie's beautiful mouth to memory. She revels in the warmth of her body, solid and real beneath her, how her nails bite into her shoulders, how her tongue crashes against hers when she finally stands in full and kisses her again.

" _Natasha_ —"

"Hold on, Allie. Not yet, don't let go just yet."

"Tasha, I don't think I can— _oh god_ —"

It's just a moment longer, just a split second in time that everything seems to freeze, as if they're the only two people left in the whole entire world, as if there is absolutely nothing else. It makes the fall that much more real, it makes Allie's soft cry of pleasure that much more piercing, and she spasms around Tash's fingers, wet and warm and strong, her hands clawing at her partner's back. Tash deepens the kiss, and Allie whimpers against her mouth, clutching her closer. Her body shudders with each wave of her orgasm, Tash's fingers continuing to work diligently until she is completely and utterly spent.

When Allie finally stops trembling, when the desperate fervor of the kiss finally fades, Tash pulls her hand away. Allie slides down the elevator wall with a sigh of sated exhaustion and relief, collapsing in a heap of heavy bones and muscles she no longer has any control over. Tash lowers herself to the floor beside her, her hand reaching up to twist in the wet, tangled hair at the base of Allie's neck, pulling her close to press her lips to the side of her head.

"I don't understand." Allie shakes her head, breathless, not entirely recovered, and she casts a sideways glance at Tash, clearly trying not to laugh. Tash raises an eyebrow at that, but Allie's laughter, even post coital, is perhaps even more infectious than it is any other time. She can't help but smile at her because of it.

"What, exactly?" Tash asks, eyes narrowed, leaning her head back against the wall as Allie points to their outstretched legs, to her discarded gown, and the heels they both still wore.

"How is it our escapades always end up with my clothes on the floor first, and yours still perfectly intact?"

This time Tash laughs, loud and genuine, her shoulders shaking with the effort.

"Are you _complaining_?"

"Hardly," Allie exhales, "but we're supposed to be equals in this, remember? This includes equal distribution of—"

"—getting each other off in an elevator at work events?" Tash interrupts, her grin unapologetic. "I could live with that."

"You're shameless, you know that?" Allie teases, twisting her fingers back through Tash's hand, bringing it to her lips to kiss her knuckles. Tash sighs, softening and sobering at the touch, at Allie's words.

"I am now," Tash replies thoughtfully, meeting Allie's hazel eyes. They both know exactly what she's talking about, her sincerity flooding over even in though the admission is simple in itself, a small piece of a much larger truth. Allie's smile doesn't falter, but it changes, and her grip on Tash's hand tightens.

"I love you," Allie says suddenly, brazenly, "I never told you that enough, Tash, but… I'm going to make up for it. Promise."

"I love _you_."

It's all Tash can force herself to say, and even though those three words are genuine, from the heart as they've always been, they're quiet. Tash can barely force herself to say them in the silence of the elevator, with nothing but Allie's gentle breathing as a soundtrack to accompany the emotions spinning in her head.

"I have an idea," Allie continues, adeptly redirecting their conversation, saving Tash from the things she's not ready to say, much to her appreciation. Allie reaches for her dress, and Tash involuntarily reaches to trail her fingers along the ridge of Allie's spine. She slides her legs back through as she gets to her knees, gesturing for Tash to zip her up.

"You're full of those tonight." Tash notes, zipping the black gown back in place slowly, savoring the moment.

"We _are_ equals in this, you and I," Allie continues, standing, reaching down to pull Tash to her feet, to pull her closer, "but I'm sure there will be moments we'll have to make executive decisions, like the one I'm about make."

"Hm, and what kind of executive decision is that, Ms. Knight?"

"We're not going back to the party. We're going back to our room and I'm taking you to bed."

"As if that's a decision I _wouldn't_ agree with."

"Funny," Allie grins, "I was kinda betting on that."


End file.
